


Crowley's Christmas

by TheYmp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Be Careful What You Wish For, Bodyswap, Christmas, Comedy, Drunkenness, Hangover, Humor, Innuendo, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:47:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21944614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheYmp/pseuds/TheYmp
Summary: It started, as these things so often do, with just a little bit too much to drink... and a wishing amulet.
Relationships: Crowley & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Crowley's Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Milly_Gal](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Milly_Gal).



> Disclaimer: I don't own _Supernatural_ or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain. No harm or infringement intended.
> 
> Written for 2017's **Crowley's Christmas** at **SPN BigPretzel** on LiveJournal. Milly_Gal's prompts were: _"Crowley becomes what is commonly known as pissed as a handcart and starts telling Christmas stories from when he was a young demon, much to the horror of those assembled / Sam and Crowley end up in a Christmas muck up body swap - hilarity ensues."_

**_"See, the luck I've had, can make a good man turn bad  
So please, please, please... let me get what I want this time"_ **

**_\- 'Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want', The Smiths_ **

~#~

It started, as these things so often do, with just a little bit too much to drink...

"And let me tell you another thing," slurred Crowley, the volume of his voice rising while waving an admonishing finger in Sam's face (made possible only due to Sam sitting down). He paused in momentary confusion when the point he was struggling to make failed to slip eloquently from between his lips.

He snapped his fingers on successfully recouping his thoughts and cutting off Sam's attempt to get a word in edgeways. "Most demons have no style," he complained. "It's all tearing throats out with their teeth - where's the fun in that? All that gets you is a mouth full of gristle and they usually go straight to Heaven anyway!" He shook his head at the insanity of it all.

"Are you seriously trying to persuade us that you've never killed anyone?" snorted Dean, enjoying the performance as much for his brother's increasingly horrified expression as for Crowley's ability to unwittingly divulge the most outrageous of statements.

"Oh, good grief, no," laughed Crowley, taking another swig of his drink. "What I mean, is that you've gotta corrupt them _first_. Bring them around to your way of thinking."

"Seduce them," added Dean helpfully, as he refilled everyone's glasses.

"Exactly," Crowley nodded, pausing to take a sip. "Like I've done with you two."

Sam choked on his drink, which then really wasn't helped by Dean proceeding to cheerfully and vigorously slap him on the back. He coughed violently; certain he could feel the harsh alcohol burning out his lungs, before noticing that Crowley was still talking.

"I mean, that fruitcake, Lilith, she killed half our contingent simply because, come Christmas, we couldn't find enough women called Holly to decorate the walls of Hell!"

Even Dean looked a little green at that, noted Sam.

"Although, at least she made grand gestures," allowed Crowley, with a heavy sigh. "And, they could have just lied about it! The new guard are just too bland and spineless to do anything memorable. Probably, fortunately for you," he said, squinting up at the brothers.

"I don't know, I think you've had more than your fair share of dramatic moments," said Dean dryly, raising his glass in salute.

"We Crossroad demons have always been a breed apart - we're _specialists_. Back in the day, we knew how to make a _proper_ deal," boasted Crowley. "The whole 'sealed with a kiss' thing, that was me, you know," he added proudly.

Sam tried to adjust his face into his best, polite 'I'm trying to listen without looking too traumatized' expression. He'd had years of practice with Dean, but he still felt he was getting a serious workout at it tonight.

"And now look at me," continued Crowley, pitifully. "Defeated by little more than an over-powered thug, a bully, and cast out by my own subjects. Brought low and reduced to living in your spare room! They may be Knights of Hell, but this is my twilight of damnation!" he sobbed, theatrically.

"You've just had too much to drink," said Sam, in his best reassuring voice. He'd bitten his tongue to avoid pointing out that Crowley's current opponents were actually _Princes_ of Hell and thus triggering a whole new discussion. Seriously, he was just relieved the rant had seemingly run dry, even if the alcohol hadn't. He leaned forward and plucked the glass from the demon's grasp, lifting it up and up, far, far away from Crowley's grasp.

Crowley whined as he leaned forward further to retrieve his drink but instead toppled into a sprawled heap across Sam's lap.

"Ah, but he's funny," said Dean with a wicked grin, as he swiped the glass in turn from Sam's hand and refilled it with their seeming endless supply of cheap, blended 'hunter's helper'.

It was made to a scrupulously-followed recipe handed down by Bobby Singer and was (in)famous for its ability to kill 100% of all germs dead as well as being an effective deterrent against a variety of supernatural flora and fauna. It was also known to occasionally cause temporary blindness. It was, by far, Dean's favorite tipple.

"I never realized he was such a maudlin drunk," Dean added, holding out the refill unwitting or, more likely, uncaring of his brother's disapproving glare.

Crowley reached up to snatch the proffered tumbler and downed the drink in one, before tossing the glass into the fireplace. The dying embers exploded back into roaring flame.

Smacking his lips, with a lazy, satisfied expression, Crowley burrowed for comfort into his new human 'cushion'. "You smell nice," he muttered. "Like spices..."

"Well, I guess that's better than _rotten eggs_ ," laughed Dean.

Sam looked around sharply; disconcerted by the evil laugh and the way the light cast dark shadows over his brother's features making him appear demonic. He shuddered involuntarily, only to shift with embarrassment when Crowley responded with a happy sigh ( _and definitely not a low rumbling groan of pleasure_ , Sam hurriedly reassured himself, barely restraining another shudder of... _something_ ). Sam sighed with bemused resignation and allowed Crowley to snuggle closer.

Unfortunately, a moment later, the demon seemed to belatedly absorb what Dean had just said. Sam winced as Crowley pushed himself back up to a sitting position.

"I do _not_ smell like eggs," Crowley declared.

Even with his front-row seat (so to speak) Sam wasn't certain if Crowley's eyes had really flashed an oddly striking, deep crimson.

"Don't deny it," insisted Dean. "I've done the demon thing; I know the pros and cons!"

 _Pros?_ thought Sam, skeptically.

"I don't, do I, Sam?" insisted Crowley, digging the object of his affection in the ribs insistently to gain his attention.

"Maybe a little," Sam allowed, feeling oddly traitorous. "It's only when you apparate back from Hell," he added hurriedly. "It's only very faint, most of the time you'd barely notice."

Crowley frowned as he tried to grasp Sam's words. Giving up, he glanced back at Dean with a dismissive sniff. "Well, unlike _you_ , I at least shower every day!"

Dean snorted contemptuously at the poor come back. "Whatever. Anyway, no one washes as much as this goon," he chuckled, ruffling Sam's hair.

" _Hey!_ " yelled Sam. "Don't pull me into your arguments or whatever this is," he complained, but Dean had already grown bored and wandered off.

Crowley watched him leave with a lazy sigh. "Buns like that, should've been a baker," he muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" asked Sam, sure he must have misheard.

"Bah, ignore him; he can't resist pulling my pigtails either," mumbled Crowley, snuggling in closer as he let himself start to drift off.

"Ew, I don't want to think about that."

Crowley rocked back, suddenly awake and looking hurt. "Oh, so am I not good enough for the mighty Winchesters, then?"

"No, you're fine," said Sam, awkwardly readjusting himself under the shifting weight, while wondering how _he'd_ become the bad guy. "He is my brother after all, and I've already seen _far_ more of him than is probably healthy."

"I wish I could swap places with you to see that," Crowley leered, unmindful of the strange flickering of the lights in response to his words.

"Again, _gross!_ Hands off my brother!"

"What, he has very fine.... _ass_ -ets," the demon laughed, stretching out the first syllable.

"Yeah, yeah, so everyone used to tell me growing up," grumbled Sam.

"Oh, I'm sorry Moose - I love you too!" said Crowley, pulling a fake, exaggerated swooning face.

Sam laughed, despite his best efforts, and gave Crowley a shove, sending the demon tumbling off his lap. "Wait up; how are you even drunk, anyway?

Crowley spent a couple of moments flailing around on the floor trying to work out which way might be up, "Well, it ain't on all the love," he grumbled, finally crawling to his knees.

Sam snorted, but his eyes narrowed suspiciously and he leaned forward to pluck an unfamiliar amulet from around Crowley's neck. "What's this?"

"It's a wishing amulet," drawled the demon, as if speaking to a child. "Give it back."

Sam pulled a face and flung the necklace into the still fiercely-burning fireplace where it exploded into an ominous mushroom cloud of choking, green smoke.

"You should know better," coughed Sam.

"Well, I could do no better," grumbled Crowley. "And now I'm back to drinking 'for the taste'. You do know they don't even make _Glencraig_ anymore, don't you?

"Nothing good ever came out of wishing," Sam shrugged, unapologetically.

Crowley snorted and pointed to himself. "Demon. 'Nothing good' is kinda the job description. Plus, now thanks to you, I've got no way to reverse the effects."

He sighed in the face of another bland, if adorable, broad-shouldered, Winchester shrug. He was cold and tired and still very, _very_ drunk despite the destruction of the amulet. "Goodnight, Sam," he called as he made his way off to his room.

~#~

Crowley gradually woke, unsurprised by the unfamiliar surroundings. It was hardly the first time he'd found himself in some lucky soul's bed after having his most decidedly wicked way with them. What was more surprising was the lack of any real hangover, that and the terrible, overwhelming urge to pee.

Things didn't seem quite right as he stumbled, all limbs akimbo, across the darkness of the room to the, fortunately, lighted bathroom. He started to get a strong sense of wrongness when he clipped his head on the top of the doorframe, but his suspicions were truly confirmed when he got down to business.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd genuinely laughed for joy.

~#~

Sam's first thought was that he was back in Hell. He honestly couldn't remember the last time his head had pounded quite so badly.

He reached out for where he normally left a glass of water ( _good hydration is so important_ ) and frowned when his hand kept missing the bedside table. He frowned further when he realized it wasn't _his_ bedside table.

_Where am I?_

Despite the thumping pain, like a pick-ax being driven through his eyes into his brain, he dragged himself from the twisted sheets of the unmade bed. He staggered across the room, tripping several times on piles of discarded clothes, and stared at what should have been his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

A very naked Crowley gawked blearily back at him.

The sight was enough to set Sam off and, as he proceeded to 'worship at the porcelain altar' as Dean would have put it, he realized he really was in Hell.

~#~

It turned out there were far more devil's traps in the bunker than Sam had ever appreciated, although fortunately they all seemed a little faded with age. Nevertheless, it had still taken more than a couple of days to escape the first, before he'd gone crashing headlong straight into the next one.

The rune blocking his exit on the main door out of the bunker, however, as he soon discovered, was well beyond his power.

He'd already found Crowley's abandoned phone. It took many attempts over several hours of calling his brother (listed in the contacts as 'Mr. Squirrelly') before Dean finally deigned to answer.

"Listen Crowley, I can talk for a minute but you gotta stop bugging me," answered Dean, barely giving Sam a chance to speak. "I'm on a case with Sam - I promised him I'd do the research this time - and you know what a little bitch he can be sometimes."

Before Sam could form a suitably outraged response, his brother was already cutting him off. "Anyway, speaking of which, he's back. Gotta go!"

"Wait!" cried Sam, as the call disconnected.

He tried to ring again but the call went straight to voicemail. Frowning, he scrolled through the handful of other contacts until he got to one labeled as 'Moosey the Moose'.

The call was answered almost the very moment he dialed. "Crowley!" he yelled.

"I think you've got the wrong number," came the smug answer. It sent chills up Sam's spine to hear his own voice slip every now and then into Crowley's clipped accent.

"Sit tight, you handsome devil you, and I'm sure we'll be back in time for Christmas," chuckled Crowley.

"Why you!" cried Sam impotently.

"Ah, ah, ah! It's only a week or so. Now, I suggest you settle down or I'll make it after the New Year!" threatened Crowley, before hanging up.

Despondent, Sam stared around at his surroundings in the bunker as he wondered; with no need to eat or sleep, whatever was he going to do to fill his time?

~#~

It was with a considerable sense of relief when, just less than two weeks later, Sam heard the main door of the bunker swing open with a loud crash. He rushed to the entrance in time to watch Dean and Crowley make their way down the staircase.

The pair looked far too happy and relaxed for Sam's liking, and he made no delay at blurting out his terrible tale of woe.

"I can't believe you didn't even realize it wasn't really me," cried Sam,

"Ah," considered Dean, with a guilty look that gave a selfish part of Sam some small satisfaction. "I thought you seemed a lot more like fun than usual. I should've realized it was my old drinking partner." His tone was jocular, but there was a definite undercurrent of violence that clearly gave even Crowley pause.

"I'd like to think I put on a very convincing show," said Crowley. "You forget, it's not the first time I've been inside you, Sam," he added, huskily. "Although, considering you also had Gadreel in there at the same time, things were a little tighter back then."

"Dude, too soon." winced Dean.

"How do we change back?" fretted Sam.

"Why on Earth would we want to do that?" chuckled Crowley. As if on cue, his stomach grumbled loud and long as if disagreeing with him. "I think that third bacon double cheeseburger might have been a mistake," he groaned as he rubbed absently at his belly.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Is it my imagination or does _my_ body now have a paunch?"

"No," denied Crowley, clearly sucking in his gut. "This body just needs a lot of fuel. Like a typical American vehicle, it's a real gas guzzler."

"A real gas something," muttered Dean. "And _worse_ than usual."

"It's not my fault," complained Crowley. "It's all the junk food you've been feeding me."

" _I've_ been feeding you?"

"Yes, I can't help it that I've got poor impulse control - I haven't needed to eat for hundreds of years!"

"Right, that's it, find some way to swap our bodies back," ordered Sam.

"With been through this already, _you're_ the one who destroyed my wishing amulet," sighed Crowley. "Although, at the moment, _theoretically_ , you're a crossroads demon. Why don't you make a deal?"

Sam thought for a moment, then gave Crowley a chaste peck on the cheek.

"Was that it?" asked the demon incredulously. "No contract? Not even a penalty clause? Don't give up the day job, will you?" Any further complaints were lost in the suddenly ripping sounds as each body morphed into the original appearance of its current host.

"Well, I suppose that was technically a body swap, but it wasn't exactly how I'd have imagined it," groused Crowley, back once more in his own body and now swamped by Sam's huge clothes. He poked Sam hard in the ribs, whose clothing had been ripped and shredded by his own sudden size change. "That was my only decent suit," he complained.

"Looks like you're stuck wearing flannel for a bit longer," laughed Dean.

"I don't believe it," whispered Crowley, ignoring Dean's goading. He seemed shocked as he looked down at himself. "I never even considered the possibility," he whispered.

"What is it? Is something wrong?" asked Dean, giving Sam a careful once over, but, clothing mishap aside, seeing nothing amiss.

"Wrong? Wrong? _It's bloody marvelous_ ," said Crowley with a slowly spreading smile. He turned to Sam. "I love what you've done with the place."

"I'm confused," said Dean. "What he do?"

"Only two weeks of careful eating and regular exercise, I'm guessing. Oh, Moose! I think it's the kindest thing anyone's ever done for me. I could kiss you!" Crowley cried, his eyes shining. "Oh, sod it," he declared, throwing caution to the wind. He darted forward and laid a full-on Frenchie to an astonished Sam.

"Er, my pleasure," stammered Sam giddily, gasping for air, all while blushing furiously.

"Can we make it a regular thing?" asked Crowley, hopefully. "I'd be more than happy to do a swap again – I mean, for you, it's another couple of weeks of respite from your idiot brother-"

" _Hey!_ " complained Dean.

"-and you seem the type who'd actually _want_ to do a _dry January_ ," Crowley added with a shudder.

THE END

(;,;)


End file.
